| Questions Lead To Insults |
| Summary: | An Ensign tries to get some answers only to wind up insulted for her efforts. |
| Date: | 16 Nov 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Not Out Of The Woods - Ground |
| Players: |
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| Observation Deck |
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| With a quiet view to the stars, this tends to be one of the more popular 'quiet areas' of the Cerberus. Up front is a small-unseated area for ceremonies or other activities while the seating rises up behind it. Each level rises up behind the one before it, comfortable chairs and couches set up for crewmembers to relax, get some work done or even take a nap. A large armored plate is lowered during Condition One to protect the interior against a breach in the glass |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #263 |
Davis sits in a corner of the observation deck, hands on a clipboard in her lap and watching the hatch. Yesterday she had sent a dispatch to Richards requesting a debriefing with the Marine. Yes, in the observation deck, rather than an office. The wording and timing, of course, were key; with the injured soldier on light duty, and the dispatch technically a request, there would be much less push-back. Though still just an Ensign in retraining, there are some bureaucratic skills that are universal across the fleet.
"Hey, sir," comes Richards' voice from the side, his voice a semi-drugged slur thanks to the pain meds he took not too long ago, the pill having done well to dull his eyes as well as put the hissed drawl to his words which Davis just might notice despite not having heard him talk much the other day. "You wanted to talk to me?" No salute or coming to attention there but he's polite and remains on his feet until she gives him permission to join her.
No rebuke is forthcoming, nor any sign of offence as such, but the Ensign does tilt her head and blink pointedly at the Marine. "You're injured," Davis states after a pregnant pause, the concern in her voice not entirely convincing. "Please, sit." She pats the arm of a love seat next to her, having seated herself in a wingback chair. How it got there is a small mystery which, while easily solved (a tongue-in-cheek prize scavenged from some ruins, no doubt), the stately armchair is still a curious novelty among so much fleet-standard furniture.
Richards reaches up and touches the bandage upon his neck and then looks at the one wrapped around his hand, his expression a bit shocked as if he had forgotten they were there. "It's really nothing," he manages to retort while seating himself, his head held straight until he got his backside upon the cushion, the healing muscles still sore and the stitches easily pulled painfully taut if he moves the wrong way. Sighing in relief once he realizes he was successful in not hurting himself, there is a casual slouch assumed which has Dick's legs sprawled out awkwardly and his arms laid out along the loveseat's back. "What can I do for you, sir," he asks once he's comfortable, the Marine giving Davis the floor.
The loose and the tense change places after seeing with how much care Richards has to seat himself; Davis leans over the arm of her seat to place a caring hand on the Marine's forearm. "I don't mean to be a typical member of the Fleet brass," she begins, her voice taut with concern, "but are you sure you're alright? I mean…" Her gaze dart toward his bandages before the girl's green eyes return to his own. "Somebody must've told you that you've been shot."
"Fra…er, heck yeah, sir. I'm healing just fine. My neck's just a bit sore. No worries." It's not that Richards is succumbing to the ego many of his comrades do during situations like his. He's just not prone to whining about every little booboo he acquires while on the job. Davis' friendly demeanor and her touch to his arm gets him to blush, doing nothing to help him look any older, the curse of his youthful appearance rearing up when his cheeks go beet red. "I do know I'm hurt. I just don't want anyone to give me any special treatment is all. I can walk and do most of my job so…yeah."
Davis gives him a long, lingering look before patting his arm and removing her hand. "I guess it's true what they say about Marines," she muses, lifting the clipboard in her lap. She follows quickly with a more formal tone, barely glancing at the elongated octagon. "So would you say the firefight was light action, Sergeant Richards?"
Richards bristles inwardly a bit when the Ensign says that as he prides himself on not being like other Marines but he doesn't correct her, choosing to instead give Davis a quick nod as if he agrees with her. Once he realizes what she has asked him here for he tenses, that hardening about his eyes mingling with the weariness that has been added to his features months ago. "No, sir," he says shortly, that being all he can get out.
There is a brief flurry of activity as she makes a few marks on her sheet. "That's interesting. There were five Marines and…" Davis pauses, her eyelids fluttering nearly closed. "Five or six Centurions," she decides. "I don't recall any of the Marines requiring medevac." Her tone once again loses the formal smoothness as she leans forward to intimate with her high, strumming voice, "Not that nobody got hurt, I mean, I can sympathise with the pain!"
Richards shakes his head at himself; forgetting that Davis is a non-combatant type officer, he mentally prepares himself to explain while also having to fight the urge to roll his eyes. "No offense, sir, but eight…" he puts emphasis on that number to drive it home, "…Centurions is not anything but heavy firefight and we were medivac'ed. You know. We came home wounded, flew in a frakking Raptor." Glaring, he looks at Davis, looking like he's fighting the urge to say something complete with the open-close motion of his mouth with nothing coming out. It takes him a moment before he realizes that he can say whatever it is the frak he wants and has a good excuse, that being the drugs he's been on for two days straight. "But I guess I can't expect an officer who gets a plush little job like yours to understand. Must be nice spending your afternoons under the XO's desk…sir."
Being corrected happens, and the Ensign takes the eye-rolling in stride. At first. She marks the Sergeant's corrections, then awaits the comment he spends quite some time chewing around. The seconds of silence stretch into a brief eternity: While she can hide the frustration of being contradicted in her face, Davis' fingers clench her stylus again and again. Fully expecting some condescending 'this is how it is in the real world' sort of thing, the Marine's personal thrust shocks Davis to her core. Quite literally, it seems, as she takes to her feet before he's even finished. "Sergeant Richards." The words come through a clenched jaw, hard edged and interrupted by a bitter swallow. "Thank you. I assure you this will not be all." With that she pivots on her heel, marching directly for the door.
There is much joy in being successful in pushing the pretty little red-headed Ensign's buttons, that he manages to conceal…kind of. The light in his eyes that over-rides the medicated haze. "Of course, sir. Thank you for your time." He lets her go while he sits, not having anywhere to go currently, his daily work load having been dealt with earlier in the day.